Very Few Things
by rachelgreene
Summary: Herein lies the love story of two crazy kids named Edward and Bella. One's a vampire, the other's a beautiful, bloodsucking bitch. Both are afraid of everything, and both are about to find out what it really means to be human. Rated M for Edward's flailing attempts to deal with sex. Let the brooding begin. Canon couples.
1. Meet Edward Cullen

**A/N: **

**First thing off, my vampires are not Meyer's. I'm not going to outline their anatomy and physiology here; not only is it unimportant to the story-line, you'll see it in the reading. **

**As for the dialogue, Alice speaks In Capital Letters for a reason. (She's a bit on the dramatic side.) Anytime that Edward is going over something that has been spoken in the past, it will be in italics _and _quotations. His thoughts, and the thoughts of those around him, will be in good old-fashioned italics. I think that's it.**

**Oh, and for those of you who are unaware:  
Thirsty = desperate  
Bluenose = 1920's era slang for "prude"**

**Trigger Warning: Assault**

* * *

"God, Edward. Could you at least _look_ like you want to be here?"

Alice turns her silky black head to face him. Her golden eyes look large and demanding on her small face. The high pitch of her voice, coupled with the reverberating music, is as grating as nails on a chalkboard. The air surrounding him is heavy with the smell of sweat, vomit, sex, and alcohol (as well as another less reputable choice of drug). The room is crowded beyond belief; they all are. He has been assailed all night with dizzy, writhing bodies – sometimes by accident, more often in proposition.

Edward Cullen does not want to be here.

"I don't want to be here, Alice. We don't belong here. We should be – "

"We should be Having Fun, Edward. We never see or talk to anyone outside of the family. It's Antisocial, It's Stupid, and I Don't Like It."

"Well of course, if you don't like it Alice," he says wryly.

Rosalie snorts.

"Don't be such a bluenose, Edward. If anyone needs to get out, it's you."

A smirk slithers across her flawless face, and his stomach jumps at the sight of it. A smirking Rosalie is a dangerous Rosalie.

"I heard dear Little Mia Cuzco offer you head a minute ago. Usually, I don't condone fraternizations with the eternally thirsty, but maybe a little action will do you some good. How long has it been since you've gotten some? Forever, isn't it?"

He feels his face heating up at her jibes, and it only worsens when he hears the snickers from the other three. Even Jasper is having a hard time holding in his amusement.

"Shut up, Rosalie."

"There goes that rapier wit of yours again."

The snickers turn into outright laughter. He stands up, furious. "I'm going out to the car. We shouldn't be here. If Carlisle found out – "

"Oh sit back down," says Alice. "Carlisle isn't going to find out. I've checked every possible vision. He and Esme won't be back until Wednesday morning." She runs her hands through Jasper's hair and he hums in response. "You just want an excuse not to enjoy yourself. Well there isn't."

"I guess you're not considering the stick lodged in his ass."

He doesn't bother to respond to Rosalie this time. He just makes his way through the mass of slowly gyrating bodies. He's halfway through the crowd when he sees her. They lock eyes, and he wishes, not for the first time, that someone would put hers out.

Isabella Swan.

The grin she gives him is so beautiful and dangerous that he aches.

* * *

Carlisle says that hatred is too strong an emotion for the human mind to handle.

_"It corrupts them more easily than it does us, Edward. They do not know how to bear fire as we do."_

Even so, Edward likes to think that he is careful with his hatred. That he gives it out as thoughtfully as he does his love.

There are only three things in this world that he _does_ hate. Only three things that he truly despises with all of his being.

The first is being vulnerable. If asked, Edward would not necessarily label himself as strong or weak or anything in between. He would certainly never consider himself an anal retentive perfectionist whose defensive behavior bordered on paranoia (his sister Alice's words, not his). He is simply guarded against those things that might interfere with what he considers his optimal performance. Those things are, upon contact, to be removed or combated appropriately.

The second is disappointing the family. Disappointing the family could actually be simplified to disappointing Carlisle. Carlisle Cullen was Edward's sire, and the self-proclaimed patriarch of one of the largest vampire clans in existence. It isn't that the other five vampires with whom Edward lives with are not important. It's just that Carlisle is the only father Edward has ever known – in his human life and the one that followed. He acts as a sort of God figure: strong, commanding, compassionate, ever-merciful and never faltering. The sense of duty that Edward feels towards him is indelible. To disappoint him is to bring immediate and excruciating pain upon Edward's person.

To most of the family, the first two items on his list of loathsome things made perfect sense. They could sympathize with or understand the motivations behind them (or pretend to). But the third…Oh, the third was something of a running gag within the Cullen household. No one was quite willing to voice their speculations about what lay behind Edward's adulterated hatred, but everyone was well-acquainted with the object of it:

Isabella "Bella" Swan.

So far as the other Cullen's knew, Edward's loathing of the police chief's daughter was as instantaneous as it was extreme. Edward, Alice, Jasper, Rosalie, and Emmett Cullen had been enrolled in Forks High School for the first time as sophomores when she transferred from Phoenix. Forks was a small town, and news that the result of the chief's failed marriage to the infamously flighty Renee Swan spread like wildfire. The gossips had been salivating for months before the girl's feet even touched the ground of their hallowed home.

And oh were they rewarded.

Isabella Swan was Delilah incarnate. Beautiful and charming and wily as a fox, she was a bigger handful than anyone expected. Charlie Swan had had to beat the high school boys away from his little girl with a night stick. Only while he was fending off one, three others were coming in from the side. Poor Charlie eventually came to the conclusion that the only way to protect was to threaten – constantly – but he was never quite as successful as he hoped.

Because there was just _something_ about Isabella Swan that invited destruction and recklessness in the men around her.

There was some siren song of hers that led them to places that they should never, ever, have been, and could never remember coming to.

Edward had watched that first day as they flocked to her, watched her inebriating Mona Lisa smile fell the brightest and the cockiest, watched her brown doe eyes sweep down and up again in a demure attempt to hide the fact that she enjoyed it all. And that was all he could do – watch. Because for the first time since Edward was turned into a vampire, he could not read another person's mind.

It baffled him, enraged him, made him want to tear the hair out of his head, made him want to tear the hair out of her head. Where he should have heard petty, conceited, poisonous thoughts, there was nothing. A wall of silence. An anomaly.

He hated anomalies. As a matter of fact, he'd add them to the list.

Vulnerability, disappointing Carlisle, anomalies, and Isabella Swan. Fucking Isabella Swan. He hated how she got to him. He hated that she made him say things like the word 'fuck' – things he'd never say otherwise. He hated that he hated her. Hated that she, a mere slip of a girl, occupied his thoughts more than anything else ever had. If only someone else, someone with no conscience or sense of morals would just end her. He'd be forever grateful.

She is suddenly swallowed by the sea of people. It gives him the chance to regain focus. He should leave. He shouldn't have been here in the first place. None of them should have, but him more than anyone. Carlisle would be especially disappointed in him.

Carlisle Cullen enjoys mindless, teenage debauchery about as much Edward does. His disapproval of those who participate in such scenes is just as strong. It is doubtful that he would be won over by Emmett's claim that Chris Erdman's birthday party was to be the "best fucking party this town's seen in years, man!" He and Alice agreed that they would all be fools to miss it. Emmett won Rosalie over by buying her yet another outrageously expensive designer bathing suit, and Jasper simply went along with whatever it was that Alice wanted. That left him, Edward, the odd man out once more. He still wouldn't have budged on the issue at all if:

A. Alice had not pleaded with him

B. Alice had not annoyed him

C. Rosalie had not crudely referred to him as a certain "street" term for an unmentionable part of the female anatomy

D. Carlisle had not been out of town with Esme

When he reaches his secluded car, he almost tears the door off of it in frustration. He knows that these reasons are not good enough; he knew it before.

He has disobeyed Carlisle. Even worse, he has disregarded one of his sire's most important rules:

No unnecessary intermingling with the humans.

_"We are not like them Edward. We will never be like them. They would treat us like gods if they knew, which is why they must not know. We must never give them the chance to know."_

It was foolish of him to forget that, foolish of him to allow some misguided attempt at…_assimilation_ to taint his flawless record for obedience.

He smashes his head against the steering wheel before remembering that he is no human. Vampires do not vent in such a manner. He and his siblings have all let their little act grow roots where it should not have. They are beginning to forget who they are. They are beginning to forget what they are. Tonight is evidence of that.

He resolves to correct his behavior immediately. For the rest of the night, he will not move a fraction of an inch. He will not breathe and he will not blink. Perhaps he will even refrain from blood for a few extra days.

Or at least, that's what he would have done if he hadn't heard Isabella Swan screech like a madwoman:

**"Get your hands off me!"**

* * *

It is a good thing that he was just schooling his body into a state of immobility. Otherwise, he might have done something foolish.

Like jump out of the car to help the person he hates most in the world.

Carlisle insists that they not interfere with the order of things. They must not think of themselves as vigilantes or superheroes. They must not stop muggers or murderers or frauds. They must not warn Mrs. Slattern that the home nurse that has been taking care of her for the last five years is embezzling money from her Social Security Check. Such behavior is reckless and it is wrong.

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward. Everything has a balance. While we have surely earned our place in Paradise for our abstinence of human blood, we must remember that the obstacle we have overcome is most unnatural. There is nothing more abominable than the unnatural, Edward. But such would be the results of our interference with human affairs. The course of human history must continue as if we had all died long ago. Remember that."_

Now Edward takes refuge in the words as Isabella's screeching continues.

He repeats them to himself, the voice in his head getting louder as hers does.

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward."_

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward."_

He grips his head in his hands, trying to block the girl out. He doesn't know why they bother him so much. He has heard humans scream for help countless times – often right before they drew their last. Many times he didn't so much as look in their direction.

_**"Get off of me!"**_

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward._

It's just that he's never heard her sound so desperate and crazed. Not her. Usually her voice is carefully modulated and warm. Usually it wraps around you and squeezes you and makes you think of things that you _should not _–

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward."_

The sound of her screaming seizes his limbs in a vice grip and he trembles with the effort to restrain them because –

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward."_

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward."_

His head pounds terribly. He doesn't understand. This time should not be any different. He has witnessed a thousand crimes and done nothing. He will do nothing now because –

_"There is a fine line between co-existence and fraternization, Edward."_

"There is a fine line... There is a fine line between – between – "

"_Get off! Get off! Get off!_"

He breaks the handle when he opens the door this time.

It takes him no time at all to find her. She was forty-five feet and three inches away.

Chris Erdman has her body pinned against a tree with his.

She is wriggling, writhing like a wild thing. She is screaming in his face for him to, "Get off! Get your fucking hands off of me!"

Chris seems to be extremely intoxicated. He looks as confused as he is irate, and his thoughts are no better.

_Fucking tease…Always being a fucking tease…Always…Haughty and shit…Ordering people around…_

"Get off of me, Chris! Get the fuck off now!"

"Shut the fuck up, Jesus! Be still!"

The two of them are struggling and have not noticed Edward yet. He clenches his fists so hard that he hears a few bones break. He can't allow himself to do this, can he? He can still walk away from this. He can still let nature take its course. He can still –

Rosalie appears out of nowhere.

She throws her right fist in a perfect, swooping arch. It lands in Chris Erdman's face with a crack!

The boy drops like a rock to the pavement.

Edward could not be more stunned if God Himself had come down and dragged them all away.

Rosalie pants heavily. It isn't from exhaustion, he knows. It is from restraint.

She wanted to kill the boy.

After a few moments, she looks at Isabella.

"Are you okay?"

Isabella takes a step forward and spits on Chris's face, then brings her heel down hard on his nose. There is silence for a long while. All three of them examine the horrible new slant of the unconscious boy's nose. The bruising will be bad. The pain will be worse.

"I hate them," she says finally.

Rosalie nods. "Me too."

The siren tilts her head in response. She examines Rosalie as if she's trying to determine just what it is that she's looking at.

"I'm going home now. My dad's going to be back from the late shift in about an hour. Would you like to come?"

This is the question that finally thrusts Edward back into reality.

This is a big mistake. All of it. This should never have happened. It cannot go any further.

He runs over.

"Rosalie? Rosalie, what are you doing?"

Isabella turns her narrowed brown eyes on him like a set of headlights.

"Cullen? How long have you been out here?"

He flinches.

"I – I just left the party."

"Oh."

Rosalie's mouth screws up in disgust.

_You coward. I should tell her. I know that you just __**stood **__there, Edward._

He doesn't know why, but the thought of Rosalie doing that kills him. He always has cared an awful lot about what people think of him.

When Isabella turns back to face Rosalie, he shakes his head at his sister in an odd moment of supplication.

_I said I should, I didn't say that I would. You aren't worth the trouble._

"Yeah, I'll come with you. Edward, tell everybody that I'll get home on my own."

Despite the fact that he is well acquainted with her petty rebellions, he is stunned at the audacity she now employs.

"Rosalie, you _can't_. Carlisle will be furious."

He realizes as soon as he has said the words that it was the wrong thing. Rosalie's eyes narrow into slits and her lips curl into a vicious snarl. Edward knows that, although she gives _her_ hatred out almost indiscriminately, she harbors a special sort of abhorrence of her sire.

"Will he now?" she spits.

"Rosalie, think about – "

"Fuck you Edward. Carlisle has _never _been my master."

Then they both leave him.

* * *

**Alright guys. That's the first chapter. If I were you, I'd review. **

**But that's just me. :)**

**No really. Come on. I worked like a madwoman on this.**


	2. What's Eating Edward Cullen?

**Author's Note: You're going to have to bear with Edward. I know he's a whiny, self-righteous asshole in this chapter (and will be for much of the foreseeable future), but this whole fic is centered around his change into a decent human being.**

* * *

"Edward, stop staring at Bella. She's going to notice in a few seconds." _In precisely twenty-seven seconds. I just didn't want to show off._

Edward gives Alice a sour look in acknowledgement of both her warnings. She smiles impishly in return. "What? I'm just trying to help. If _I _were her, _I'd _be curious about why you look like you're in pain whenever you're around me."

"I don't look like I'm in pain, Alice. I just don't understand why the entire male population of Forks insists on worshiping at the altar of that – that – creature."

Edward jabs his thumb at Isabella, who chooses that exact moment to look up from the attentions of the boys around her. She raises a thick, lovingly coiffed eyebrow, and he curses her again (internally of course) for being her. Her rebellious stare unnerves him. Even the burn of his righteous anger doesn't prevent his finger from wavering and falling to his lap when he catches it. Her lips mold into a Mona Lisa smile that makes him grit his teeth and scrape his nails underneath the table.

It's not right. It's not right that everyone – even those who harbor hatred as great as his – worship her. It's not right that even her enemies melt under that warm, steady gaze. It's not right that she gets away with little things that no one else would be able to. It's not fair that she has charmed even the members of his family with her pathetic little act. And now... Now, even Rosalie likes her. Rosalie!

This recent development is not only baffling, but problematic in the very worst of ways. Over the weekend, Rosalie spent a total of fifteen hours and fifty-four minutes in the company of Isabella Swan. The time that his sister did not spend in Isabella's presence was dedicated to _texting _her with the new cellular phone she purchased.

It was inconceivable.

Rosalie... Vain, haughty Rosalie (who hates other beautiful women on sight - particularly brunettes) was keeping the company of a girl who turned heads just by breathing. Edward would never have imagined Rosalie even looking at, much less spending time with such a creature. And to think that the girl was a human! Where was his sister's trademark jealousy? If there was anything that he would call stable about Rosalie's explosive personality, it's that.

And perhaps her loathing of Carlisle.

Carlisle and Esme were due back in less than two days. Edward shuddered to think of what would happen when his sire discovered just who was keeping Rosalie company this time. The two had never been on friendly terms, and the summer of 1958 had eliminated any remaining good will. Rosalie avoided Carlisle whenever possible. The time that she was around him was spent glowering in his direction. Emmett was the only reason that she remained civil.

Edward knew that his sire was a wise, merciful sort, but even he would never tolerate this behavior. It was foolish, it was dangerous, and it was proof that Rosalie had yet to let go of her human past. She was putting far more on the line than her own skin. Edward hadn't hesitated to voice these and other concerns when Rosalie finally came back home Saturday morning.

She had dismissed him with a sneer.

None of his other siblings supported him. Not that they ever did. Alice told Edward to mind his own business. Emmett told him to chill out. Jasper…Well, Jasper remained quiet as usual. But he, at least, _thought _that Rosalie's behavior dangerous; he just refused to go against Alice on anything.

But it didn't matter what any of them thought. Edward _knew _that he was right. And he knows now, even as he throws another furtive glance at the girl across the cafeteria, that she is going to cause them all a great deal of trouble.

She has dismissed him already, though. She always does. Her attention is held by Tyler Crowley, one of the eight boys at her table. He whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh. She kisses him once on the cheek, earning him glares from the others. When Tyler gets up to put away her food tray, she leaves the table. The rest of the boys watch her as she leaves through the cafeteria doors.

Edward grits his teeth. It's so sickening. They're like puppets. How could they? How could they allow her to _control _them like that? It isn't natural.

_"There is nothing more abominable than the unnatural, Edward."_

"Edward, man. Bella's cool. Still don't know why you're stuck up her ass. Not her fault you can't read her mind." Emmett's louder version of a whisper may not suit Edward's taste, but that doesn't change the fact that he's right about that last part. It isn't Isabella's fault that her mind is unreadable. And he knows that, logically. It's still not enough to stop him from blaming her for it.

The truth is that he doesn't know.

He doesn't know why this one girl, this insignificant woman-child makes his head spin. It's beginning to get to the point that he can't find a moment's peace without her invading his every thought. It was bad before Friday night. It was bad before he heard her scream and watched her _move _the way she did trying to get away from Chris. But now it's terrible. Now he keeps seeing her face everywhere.

He doesn't know what to do about any of it. He doesn't know _why_, and -

"I think you like her!"

Edward's head whips around to face Emmett.

"What?"

His brother chuckles. "I said, 'I think you like her'. That's why you're so obsessed with her and shit. Your probably just – Ow, fuck! Alice! It's true!"

He does not even have the presence of mind to thank his little sister for kicking Emmett. He is too furious. The idea... The very idea that he would ever feel _anything _for a girl like Isabella Swan! It's ridiculous and insulting. Did Emmett have such a low opinion of him?

"That's not funny, Emmett. I mean it. I want nothing to do with girls like her."

Rosalie folds her hands under her chin and leans forward. The faintest bits of blue peek through her suddenly hard, golden eyes.

"What, precisely, do you mean by girls 'like her', Edward?"

They are all quiet for a moment. The only sound is from Edward grinding his teeth.

She is trying to scare him, to intimidate him like always. He doesn't care. He's too angry. He's nothing like what they're insinuating. He isn't like that.

Alice's voice is quiet when she speaks. "Rose, don't do this. You two need to just – "

"No, Alice. I want. To hear."

He's had enough.

"You can get as angry as you like Rosalie, but you know exactly what I mean."

"Then say it!" she snaps. "Please, Saint Edward, explain to us why someone like you could never be interested in a girl _like her_!"

"Rosalie – "

"No! Tell us! Tell us why she isn't good enough for you! Not that anyone is."

"Rosalie – "

"I'm sure that I speak for everyone when I say that there are doubts that – "

"Rosalie – "

"You can even _be _with a woman! Is that it, Eddie? It's not that won't, it's that you can't! You – "

"She's a slut!" he roars, artificial blood pounding in his ears and his head and he's had enough, enough. "That's why! She's a slut, a tramp, a floozy, a whore! That's why! Are you satisfied Rosalie? Are you happy now? I don't want her because she's a _slut_."

He comes back to himself then. He comes back and realizes, in the midst of the quiet, that his response was loud enough to rock through the entire cafeteria. He turns around. Everyone is staring at him. Everyone. They all looked stunned. Even Alice. They all look…disgusted.

No one is saying anything.

Rosalie's face is blank as she looks at him, but he knows that she's simmering underneath.

"Rosalie," he pleads (even though he doesn't know why). "Rosalie, that's not what I meant."

"I hate you," she says.

It isn't said with any sort of venom. She could have been speaking about the weather for all the emotion behind it:

'Oh yes, Edward, I do think it will rain. Not very much – perhaps a light drizzle. I hate you.'

He's not sure if that's the reason that it cuts him so much, or if it's because he knows that she really, truly means it.

He's not sure why it cuts at all. There is no love lost between him and Rosalie. There never has been.

Despite that – despite all of it – his chest feels very heavy and very tight.

He waits for Alice to say something in his defense. She always does. (She's good at that sort of thing.)

But she looks away from him.

He stands up, taking his tray with him. "I didn't mean it." It's directed at no one and everyone. "I didn't mean it the way I said it."

No one stops him when he leaves.

* * *

Edward doesn't know where he's going. He's just wandering around the halls really. The bell that signifies the end of lunch will not ring for another four minutes and nine seconds. It can't come fast enough.

He'd never lost his temper that way.  
(Four minutes, seven seconds.)

Not in front of humans at least.  
(Four minutes, five seconds.)

And no one had ever looked at him the way he'd been looked at just now.  
(Four minutes, three seconds.)

Not even Rosalie.  
(Four minutes, one second.)

She's always been scornful, yes.  
(Three minutes, fifty-nine seconds.)

From the moment he rejected her.  
(Three minutes, fifty-seven seconds.)

But never like that. Never like –

"Cullen? What are you doing here?"

There's a part of him that isn't surprised to find himself standing in front of Isabella Swan's locker (and Isabella herself). After all, the last few days have been hell on earth. The last few moments have been substantially worse. Why shouldn't things continue to go downhill? Why wouldn't the cause of it all be standing in front of him, looking for all the world like she _isn't _ruining his life?

"Hey. Anyone home?"

"I – I – "

Despite his attempt at a cavalier attitude, he's terribly afraid to look her in the eyes. He's afraid that she can see everything if he does. She'll be able to see what he thinks and feels and fears. She'll be able to see that he called her a _slut_. She'll know.

She laughs.

"God, Cullen. You really need a girlfriend."

His head snaps up, and her mouth unfurls into a grin at the look on his face.

"What did you say?"

"I said that you need a girlfriend. It'll give you some confidence around other girls. God knows you need it. You can barely talk to us." She ties her hair in a ponytail as she speaks.

"I don't recall needing or asking for your advice." His voice crumbles just a bit towards the end. He is used to being cold towards her, but her criticism – her attention – is very nearly knocking him off of his axis. Usually, she doesn't speak to him. Usually, she speaks to every other male but him. Not only that, but he can see her shoulder blades flex when she ties her hair. There is a brown freckle on her left one.

He swallows.

"You're so rude Cullen." Her grin doesn't fade though. She looks predatory. He knows that somehow, somehow he has revealed a weak spot. Somehow, he has made himself vulnerable to an attack.

"I'm leaving." But he doesn't move.

She does. She moves forward in one large step.  
(One foot, one-half inch away.)

He stops blinking, and she moves again.

She's three inches away.

The scent hits him like a punch in the throat. It's that earthy, heady, mouthwatering, this-will-destroy-you-but-you-will-enjoy-it scent that only she has. He feels raw all over, like someone's flayed him and hung him out to dry. He's smelled her scent before, yes. But not like this. Not with her standing so close to him. Not with it amplified times a thousand.

His eyes roll into the back of his head, and he feels a twitch and a straining somewhere he shouldn't. The urge to strangle her with his cold hands crashes over him.

"Get away from me!" he hisses. She's a witch. That's what she is. She's a witch, and he has to get away from her or he'll kill her. Only he's not moving.

One part of him is afraid, the other curious, of what he will do to her if she moves at all. Fortunately she does not. She's just..._looking _at him. Bold and steady and curious. He's struck by her eyes. It's ridiculous to say that the brown of her eyes is different from any other. It's foolish to think for even a moment that they look hotter, softer, sweeter.

(He still does it.)

Because he knows they are weapons, those eyes. They are the place she takes the men to drown them, and he refuses to be one of them. He hates her in the way that everyone else should. He loathes her, despises her, has imagined her dead in a hundred different ways a thousand different times. He will never be anything to her but the man that wants to bury her in the ground.

She should know that. She should see it in his face, and he tries to make it perfectly clear. He tries to recover the ground that he feels slipping away by grimacing at her as if she is dirt. And she must not be invincible because she flinches away from him ever so slightly.

He doesn't like it as much as he thought he would.

But she's still standing her ground imperiously and looking at him like it doesn't matter. Like he'll join the others soon enough.

Then she does something that very well makes his heart stop. Or start back up again.

Isabella Swan leans in to him, inhaling softly, skimming his shoulders and the column of his neck with her nose. She presses her soothing, gentle fingers to the too-sharp line of his jaw.

And she gives a breathy, satisfied sigh, whispering right before she does the unthinkable.

"Edward."

She puts her lips on his.

* * *

Some part of him knows that he is being kissed.

The other part is coming alive.

He has studied Greek Mythology extensively in his many years on earth; Carlisle says that they are rife with philosophical gems and questions. So he is well acquainted with the tale of the phoenix. The mythological bird lives for an intolerably long time, only to light itself on fire and turn to ashes. Out of these ashes arises a new, stronger, fiercer bird.

And now -

He is on fire.

He is bursting.

He is reborn.

He is rising.

It isn't just the soft smooth lips on his. It isn't the gentle, insistent hands tangling in his hair and pulling him forward. It isn't the warm body pressed against his.

It's the realization that Isabella Swan is the reason he's alive.

It's the realization that everything that he has ever said, done, or thought up until this point is so that he is perfect for her, as she is for him.

So yes, he grabs her hair and pulls her forward. Yes he coils his arm around her waist so that she can never, ever, ever, ever, get away from him. Yes he inhales as she exhales, glorifying in that they are sharing breath. That they need each other for oxygen. Never mind that he doesn't really need to breathe.

He damn well wants the feeling.

He gets it for a moment. He gets all the feelings.

But then she tears away.

Instinctively, he pulls her back. She tears away again, this time with a shrieking, "Ouch! God, Cullen!" He remembers that she is only human. The delicate structure of her bones and the smooth cream skin stretched over it doesn't tempt or anger him now; it scares him. Frail, she is - easily broken.

He notices that she looks different now. Her face is triumphant, radiant, arrogant. She catches her breath quickly, and he knows that she has done this many, many times before.

He doesn't have much time to get angry over that because she smirks and asks a question he couldn't possibly dread more. Even though the answer is clear. Because the answer is clear.

"You're in love with me, aren't you?"

He stands stock still, unable to do anything but look at her. Maybe she's more striking than beautiful. Entirely possible. He's known forever that it's not her looks that draw the men in; it's the way she looks at them. Those brown eyes are more than just brown eyes. They are clear, brilliant traps. They are multi-faceted, able to shift from demure to dangerous to hurt to anger in the moments between seconds. She has only to ask with those eyes and he will fall on his knees and worship the ground her tiny feet stand on.

Fortunately for his pride, triumph is all he sees in them. The sorceress speaks. "You don't have to answer. I can tell."

A gurgle-like sound leaves his lips. He feels paralyzed with the itch to envelope her whole. All of him is so eager to move that none of him can.

She tips her head up at him, exposing a long column of neck that practically _demands_ that he open the floodgates of his other desire for her. For the red flowing inside of her.

"I'm glad that you love me Edward. The only other option was hate, and that would have broken my tender little heart."

Then she is pressing a kiss goodbye to the tip of his nose just as the bell rings. A rip tears through his chest the further she gets away from him, but he still can't move.

_"That would have broken my tender little heart."_

It bothers him not just because he very literally wants to eat her heart out, but because he knows there's nothing tender about it.

He has to add 'Being in love with Isabella Swan' to the lists of things he hates. Although that could be translated to being completely and utterly fucked.

* * *

**Review like it's 1982...Oh sweet Jesus, that was terrible. Don't judge me.**


	3. The Trials of Edward Cullen

**A/N: Yes. I am aware that this is a very short chapter. Shoot me.**

* * *

_Edward, calm down!_

Alice's unspoken warning, given three doors down from Mr. Banner's classroom, might as well be three worlds away. She could threat and cajole and reason all she wanted, but none of it changed the fact that _Michael Newton was touching what wasn't his._

It more than bothers Edward that only thirty minutes ago, he experienced nothing less than a complete and total awakening. That now the person who kissed his eyes open is busy sneaking kisses with Mike Newton in AP Biology.

It's as if the whole world has gone mad.

Edward remembers that on the first day of school, Isabella had been ten minutes late (as per usual). Instead of getting a tardy like anyone else would have, she had batted her eyelashes at Mr. Banner and murmured some idiotic excuse. The lecherous teacher had pardoned her of course. Told her that he was sure that it wouldn't happen again, but there were only two seats left for her to take. One by Mr. Newton and one by Mr. Cullen.

She had smiled beatifically in Edward's direction, probably thinking that he would chew his own arm off for a chance to sit by her. He'd been sure to give her a look so poisonous that it could have chilled Lovecraft.

Isabella Marie Swan just shrugged and took her place beside her most loyal dog.

Since then, Michael Newton had become the closest thing to a "boyfriend" that Isabella ever had. She'd spent more time, given more touches, more looks, more kisses, more _everything _(though Edward refused to dwell on what "everything" might entail) to Newton than she'd given to any of her other followers. In turn, Newton simpered and sighed and fancied himself in love. Edward has endured far too many of his fantasies regarding Bella – many in which end in marriage and her eventual pregnancy. It was revolting before, but now it's infuriating. Now it's more than enough to warrant complete and total loathing.

He hates to admit it, but he's angry with himself as well. He had a chance that first day. Had he taken it, Newton would _know_. Everyone would know that she was his.

Only how could he have predicted what Isabella Swan would be to him? How could he have predicted that the bane of his existence would become the reason for it? How would he have known that this slip of a girl would mean everything?

Why hadn't she said something? Why hadn't she told him? Why hadn't she given him some sort of hint?

He's hated her for three years of his life. One thousand, ninety-five point seventy-three days. One hundred fifty-six point five hundred and thirty two weeks. Thirty-six months. And every second a waste, all of it. All that time that he allowed her to give the things that belonged rightfully to him to others so much less worthy. All that time spent wishing her dead instead of…

_Kissing her._

The memory of her mouth and hands on him is so real and so warm… He rids his mind quickly of such thoughts. It would not do to focus on such base urges. He isn't Emmett. His control over the more…earthly desires that constantly plague other men is legendary. So it will remain.

Isabella grazed Mike's knee with her own.

His field of vision narrows considerably. It would seem that he'd have to teach her to curb some of her urges as well. It isn't her fault though. She's had no one to teach her better. As beautiful and ignorant as she is, it stands to reason that boys like Michael Newton would try and take advantage of her. Regardless, he would still have to have a talk with her about her shameful behavior. Now that he knows they are to be together, she will have to present herself as a lady at all times.

Newton grazes her shoulder with his.

He must remind himself that he harbors a heightened sense of morality, even in his lifeless state. After all, Newton is weak, not even worth the effort and the sure-to-ensue trouble. Edward is the son of Carlisle Cullen. He's far above petty murder. He settles for fantasies of killing the boy instead. Edward is by nature quite imaginative, so his daydreaming calms him a little bit.

At least it does until Isabella rests her hand on the boy's knee. It's one of the same soft, warm hands that was just wrapped around his neck, searing his skin and bones. Now it's rising higher and higher up the boy's thigh, and he _will not have it – _

Vampires are gifted (or cursed, depending on who you asked) with the ability to move many, many times faster than their human counterparts. And yet, even their faster movements can seem like hours in their own minds. It is a testament to his anger that he doesn't realize that he has stood up from his chair and knocked over one of the old lab benches.

_Shit._

_Shit indeed Alice, _he thinks.

He is equally stunned at his behavior of course. That unfamiliar emotion manages to fully eclipse the rage he felt only moments (?) ago. He thinks, with a wrenching sense of frustration, that this has never happened before. None of this has ever happened before. The entirety of Mr. Banner's Biology class is staring at him, unmoving. While everyone else wears a mask of deep shock, Isabella's only show of emotion is the slight tightness of her delicious mouth and the signature rise of one of her eyebrows.

She's a witch.

"Mr. Cullen. What are you _doing_?"

His eyes glance around nervously, and yet another foreign emotion wells up inside of him as he takes in his astounded classmates and confused teacher.

Embarrassment. What does Isabella think of him now?

_Just ask if you can be excused Edward!_

"May I …. Be excused?" It comes out as a gurgle, but an understandable one.

"I think that's a good idea. Here's a pass to the principal's office."

Edward snatches the paper out of Mr. Banner's hand and gives Isabella one last glance before taking his leave. She's not even looking at him anymore.

Somehow, that makes it immeasurably worse.

* * *

Edward Anthony Cullen has never gone to the principal's office, and he's certainly not about to start now.

What he will do is get as far away from any brown-eyed witches as possible.

He needs to get home. He needs to get home where everything makes sense. Carlisle is not back yet, but he can still be felt in every room of the house. More than ever, Edward needs his sire's guidance. More than ever, he needs his wisdom.

When he gets to his Volvo, Alice has chosen to send Jasper.

It is an ideal choice. Edward would rather face Jasper's stoic silences than Emmett's non-stop questions or…inappropriate remarks.

He certainly didn't want to deal with Rosalie.

He will admit that this morning's situation was not handled very well. But that's over now. She will understand that he misspoke and, more importantly, that things are different now. Everyone will. He didn't mean what he said. It was an unfortunate choice of words. He isn't the sort of person that they think he is. They'll see. They'll definitely see now. They'll understand now that...He and Isabella. The two of them are –

"Alice sent Rosalie. She wouldn't come."

Edward eyes his brother as he opens the door to his car.

"Alice is usually much wiser than that."

Jasper says nothing. He just slides in the car. Edward's hand clenches as he starts the Volvo up and pulls out. He loves Alice dearly. She is, without a doubt, (and without much competition) his favorite sister. But she is awfully devious when she wants to be, and a tad manipulative to boot.

"Do you know why she thought to send Rosalie?"

"No."

_Oh yes you do._

It would be pointless to try and get any more information out of Jasper. He only spoke as much as he felt was needed, and that was never very much. Information regarding Alice was given out very rarely. Alice had to have wanted Jasper to inform him of her first choice of rescue. Otherwise, he would never have done it.

_But why?_

It didn't matter. He has more important matters to focus on.

"Well, I'm glad that it's you instead. I wouldn't feel very…comfortable talking to Rosalie."

Jasper makes no movement to show that he's heard. His mind is clear for the most part. He is examining the scenery.

"Did Alice tell you what happened?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

His companion's mind still does not stray from the differences between Western Hemlock and Douglas-fir. He is beginning to rethink his preference for who he'd have at his side right now. For some reason, he wants someone to know just what change has taken place in the last hour. More than that, he wants someone to give him some advice. Where does he go from now? How does he define the feelings he now has for the girl he hated? How did it happen in the first place? The novelty of what he now feels _deserves _that, he thinks. It deserves some sort of consideration.

Jasper has been with Alice for decades now. Surely he must have some advice. It's just irritating that the answers have to be dragged out of him.

"What do you think?"

"About?"

Edward pulls at his hair.

"About Isabella, Jasper! About Isabella and me! About what happened and what's going to happen!"

"What is going to happen?"

"I don't know!"

"Neither do I."

It's pointless, the whole conversation. There is no insight to be gained. There is _nothing _to be gained honestly. He feels even less stable than he was when he got in the car.

Now he's just angry. Now he's just doubtful and crazed and wondering just _what the fuck did Isabella Swan _do to him anyway? Why is he so volatile all of a sudden? Why is he so out of control?

He pulls at his hair again. A tuft of it comes out, but the stinging pain that follows is enough to make him focus again. He just needs to talk to Carlisle. Carlisle will know what to do. Carlisle will tell him what steps to take. He will explain everything. Maybe he will even make this – this – thing go away?

_I don't want it to go away. _

"Edward?"

"Yes, Jasper?"

"We're home. Unlock the door."

"Yes, Jasper."

"Edward?"

Teeth gritting.

"Yes. Jasper."

"It's not the end of the world. It's just love."

_Aren't they the same thing? _

* * *

**A/N: If you review, you will make me happy. It's a transient sort of happiness. It's not life-fulfilling or anything, but I want it nonetheless. So come on. Throw me a bone.**


	4. Edward on the Bridge

**A/N: This chapter was an absolute bitch to right, guys. Not only was I without Internet for weeks on end, but by the time I got it back, I couldn't figure out how to open this sucker. Finally, I just pulled out my favorite album and went to town. **

**Problem solved. **

**Also. A reviewer let me know that the underlined text was irritating to read, so I'm going with this: If it's in italics and quotations, it's Edward remembering something that was said earlier.**

**Last thing. Rosalie's not crushing on Bella in this story, even if her dialogue may raise eyebrows. The details of their relationship will be explained later.**

* * *

By the time that Edward reaches his room, Jasper's words have drilled themselves into his head. It is all he can do to lie down on his bed.

_It's not the end of the world. It's just love._

_It's not the end of the world. It's just love._

_It's not the end of the world. It's just love._

He can't even begin to define his new feelings for Isabella, but he absolutely refuses to label them as "love".

Edward Anthony Cullen is no stranger to romantic love. Not that he's ever experienced it before, of course. (The very thought is ridiculous.) But he is well-acquainted with it nonetheless. How can he not be? Even the average human can (and often does) wax poetic on the subject. It fuels them in a strange, masochistic sort of way. They wrote about it, chased it, started wars over it, ended them over it, ended them_selves_ over it. He has been privy to their innermost thoughts for over a hundred years, and he _knows_. They're obsessed with love, all of them. They crave it. They crave the sort of connection that burns right through them. They want fire, but don't know how to handle it when it's theirs.

It was baffling.

Humans can ill afford to make themselves any more vulnerable than they already are. Already they are open and naked in the face of physical and mental brutality. The poor things go mad as often as they die. And they die so piteously often.

It never mattered whether or not they were clever or beautiful or rich because they were all bags of flesh and bones. They might last for ten years or they might last seventy, but neither they nor anything they did came close to lasting forever. They were far too weak, far too fragile, to actively seek out something that would make them even moreso.

Which is why he has never, ever understood their idea of love. The idea of opening all of yourself up to a creature as fickle as a human being made no earthly sense. Maybe he had understood it when he was one of them. He can't really remember. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he knows better now. Or he thought that he did.

But now. Now he has the sinking feeling that a hundred years of peace and certainty, of knowing who he is and what he is about, has been shaken down in the space of thirty seconds. All because of a spoiled, seventeen year-old woman child.

So much of his identity depends on his independence from love, or other pathetic forms of vulnerability. Even among vampires - the ultimate predators, the pinnacles of creation and power on earth - he has been among the distinguished. He's never been mated, had never so much as had a paramour. The ties that bind him are based on something much more logical. His strongest relationship is with Carlisle. This, of course, makes him anything but vulnerable.

Having a mate would change that. Would change him. His reputation in the vampire world would be ruined. He's turned up his nose at warm bodies, warm blood, and the weak men who succumbed to them for _decades_. What would they say if they knew he had fallen into the same trap?

It was this, the thought of his ruined reputation, that –

"Where the fuck is he?"

_Rosalie._

He sits up even straighter, startled that he has only just registered the presence of his sisters and Emmett downstairs. He didn't even know that school was out. He had…lost track of time.

"In his room," drawls Jasper.

He doesn't like this. He doesn't. He wasn't ready for any of the things that had happened to him today. He certainly isn't prepared for Rosalie. He and the rest of the household are well-versed on the occasions where Rosalie was out for blood. This is one of them.

Alice's voice pokes inside of his head.

_I know that you don't want to deal with her right now, Edward, but if you leave it will be much worse later._

He tries to relax the muscles that he has unknowingly prepared for flight. Alice is very much correct. It is always best to face Rosalie immediately.

His door swings open.

"What are you playing at, Edward?"

He flinches. Rosalie may be frighteningly beautiful, but her voice is always a note too harsh. A bit too sharp. Now it sounds more like a shriek.

"I don't know what you're talking about Rosalie. Why are you even in here?"

She is in front of him now, gripping his shirt so tightly that it rips.

His uneasiness arrests him just as violently.

He's rarely seen her look as volatile as she does right now. Venom drips from her extended fangs, and he can once more see the old blue of her eyes peering through the gold. Her jaw is clenched so tight he thinks she might fracture it.

"You know exactly what the fuck I'm talking about, asshole. Stay _away _from her. I mean it."

It takes a moment for her words to register. When they do…

_How _dare _she? _

It doesn't matter that he himself has been confused about whether or not he would be staying close to Isabella Swan. The challenge issued now infuriates him. He has every right to Isabella, every right to be near her, to have her. Rosalie was out of place.

"You don't have the authority to keep me away from her. She's my _mate_, and – "

"I fucking swear to God right now, Edward, I am not kidding! Leave her alone! She's nothing to you! You _hate _her, remember?"

Rage infuses her with so much energy that she vibrates, but he hardly notices. Her words stop him in his tracks.

After all. Didn't she have a point?

Didn't he hate Isabella?

Nothing about her has changed, after all. She is still…promiscuous. And vain. And manipulative. And self-centered.

Just who is she anyway? Who is she to encroach on his life in such a manner? Who is she to toy with his mind? He is and always will be her marked superior in every way that matters. And still she had treated him as if he was…disposable.

Maybe Rosalie is right. Maybe he does still hate her. The sudden memory of her lips and hands swarms, nearly overthrowing him, but he pushes it right back. The Isabella Swan he was just daydreaming about was the same Isabella Swan he had despised since the moment he laid eyes on her. Nothing has changed. Nothing.

Rosalie stops vibrating. Her eyes dart back and forth, searching his. Whatever she sees satisfies her. She licks her lips once and straightens up, releasing him.

"See, Edward? You hate her. You always have. She's nothing to you. You hate her."

He nods. "I do, don't I? I hate her."

_I do._

* * *

When he sees her the next day at lunch, he is careful not to look in her direction. It isn't that he fears a relapse in yesterday's madness. It's just that she is, as Rosalie stated before, nothing to him. Rosalie herself is obvious in her watching of him. Although he is sometimes tempted to glance in Isabella's direction, his sister's unblinking stare convinces him otherwise.

He is forced instead to listen in on his family's conversations. The sound of their voices is somehow dull to him. Their conversations seem lifeless. He realizes that this is the first time in nearly three years that he has spent lunch period paying attention to them instead of Isabella.

"_You're in love with me, aren't you?"_

He ignores it all. The sound of her voice, the sight of her, the memory of how she _felt_…

He pushes it away. He hates her. He does. She is the epitome of everything that he despises. She is nothing to him.

_Edward. You aren't seriously trying to ignore Bella after yesterday, are you?_

He glares at Alice.

"I think you've done enough meddling."

She rolls her eyes in response. _Of course you are. Sorry I interrupted your brooding._

He decides to ignore Alice as well. She doesn't know what she's talking about. Isabella Swan is nothing but trouble, and he wants nothing to do with her. Nothing.

This is what he tells himself later in AP Biology, when he sees her passing notes with Michael Newton. It's what he tells himself when he sees Adam Younger carrying her books between classes. It's what he tells himself when he catches her eye walking from gym and she winks.

The wink happens right before the last period of the day. It is a small, effortless gesture that probably means nothing.

It nearly ruins him.

His face heats up, his fingers twitch, and something thumps wildly in his chest. He doesn't understand why, but every move that this creature makes moves _him_.

Perhaps this is why he finds himself following her after the last bell.

He certainly doesn't plan to follow her. And maybe. Maybe there is no rhyme or reason for it. He doesn't want to delve too far to find one. To question the reason why he is trailing at a reasonable distance behind Isabella Swan is to question everything that he has been telling himself about her.

She weaves through a crowd that subconsciously makes way for her. She's wearing her hair in a ponytail again. He imagines her lifting her arms and tying it the way she did yesterday, imagines the freckles splattered on her shoulder.

He shivers.

When she exits the building, she is met almost immediately by Michael Newton. She smiles brightly, showing off her almost feline teeth. The hug she gives him makes Edward's stomach tighten. He _hates _Newton, _hates _him. Not because he wants to be in his place. It's just that Newton's weakness bothers him. The fact that the boy leans into Isabella's ear and whispers, "I have to show you something," is irritating only for its childishness.

Newton looks careful not to touch Isabella. He holds out his hand, and she takes it. "What is it?"

"You'll see?"

She laughs. "Mike, you know I hate that. I can't stand _not _knowing things."

"It'll be worth it. I promise. But it's a bit of a walk."

Newton leads her (and incidentally, Edward) into the woods behind the school. There are at least a dozen half-invisible trails leading into the thick of it. Newton takes no time at all to pick one.

Edward is quick, silent, as he follows them.

It crosses Edward's mind that Newton may be leading Isabella into the woods for less-than-savory reasons. It makes his fists clench, but it is all the more reason to follow. Isabella should not be engaging in such behavior.

He imagined that Newton would draw her to some obscure spot two minutes from the school parking lot. This isn't the case. As a matter of fact, they are a good seven minutes away from the parking lot when Edward begins to recognize the path that they are taking. The feeling in his stomach is compounded. He has taken this very path a thousand times before. Surely, Michael Newton hadn't found his spot?

Isabella stops suddenly. "Mike, I'd just like to remind you that I'm making this little nature trek in heels."

Newton's face is almost comical.

Almost.

He looks as if he's accidentally killed a puppy.

_Jesus, I'm so stupid! _

"I'm so sorry, Bella! I wasn't thinking! You want me to carry you?"

"I do," she says. And her voice is eager and greedy.

Even from the distance, Edward can feel the triumph radiating from her. He realizes once more that she glories in the control she exerts. She feeds from it the same way he feeds from blood. She's as much a vampire as he is.

_I hate you. I do._

She hitches up on his back before they continue. Edward seethes, but doesn't turn around.

The farther along they go, the more he panics. He tries to tell himself that there's now way that Michael Newton could possibly be going where he thinks that he's going. But nothing has been going right, lately. Nothing has made sense.

So he is only half-shocked when they arrive.

Edward clings behind the tree line, watching the two of them in agonized silence.

They wander just a bit further into the clearing before stopping. Mike is the first to speak. "Here we are."

Isabella hops down from his back. "Holy shit. Mike. This is crazy beautiful. Did you find this place on your own?"

_He didn't_, Edward wants to say. _He didn't find it at all. I found it. I found it. If you wanted to come here, I should have been the one you came to._

The meadow that Isabella and the boy are standing in _is _beautiful.

It also belongs to Edward.

He had found it the first time that he and his family had come to Forks exactly ninety-six years ago. It's an open space overrun by wildflowers and weeds and hundreds of miniature hills and a few rotting logs and it's beautiful in its wildness and _he found it. _He was the one who found it hidden away and untouched, unspoiled. Not Michael Newton. _He _found it. It's _his _place. He comes here when he can't stay in the house, when he has to get away from the others. It's his place. And now Michael Newton has brought _her _here.

His body feels electrified. Every part of him does. The tip of his fangs extend ever so slightly, and he is stunned by the sudden blood-lust he feels. He isn't a newborn. He has much more control than this. It's just that he's never noticed before now, but...

Michael Newton doesn't look quite right without a broken neck.

"Yeah. And I kinda brought you here for a reason."

Isabella stops admiring the scenery for a moment. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I - I wanted to tell you, and I thought. What I mean is, I think. I mean, I know. I mean."

Edward is grateful that Isabella looks so annoyed with the stuttering mess in front of her. But then -

The boy takes a breath.

"I love you."

* * *

**A/N: That's technically not a cliffhanger, right? I mean, there's not enough action. Fuck it, I'm going to change a million things when I read it again in the morning. Well. It is morning now. Stayed up a bit (ha!) late so that I could finish. I'm off to haunt the kitchen. Please leave me a review.**


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